


Text Me

by Aria_Faye



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Yuuri has no clue about Sochi, starstruck yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 03:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12622368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Faye/pseuds/Aria_Faye
Summary: He squeezed the paper for the thousandth time that morning, just to make sure it was real.Victor Nikiforov had given him his phone number.





	Text Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Thanks for reading. This is a little thing I've had sitting on my laptop for months, and I finally figured I'd edited it to death and it was ready for posting. The idea just occurred to me after binging YOI for the fourth time, and I suddenly HAD to write about what happened when Victor gave his #1 fanboy his number. Have fun and enjoy!

Yuuri gawked at the small slip of paper in his hand. His knees were going stiff from pressing solidly into the floor for so long, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, kneeling awkwardly on the floor in the corner of Victor’s room, but Victor had left him there an indeterminate amount of time ago, giving him some space to figure things out. Even with everything else that could have been occupying Yuuri’s mind ( _Victor_ freaking _Nikiforov_ was in his _house_ , for god’s sake), he still couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scrap of paper in his hands and the hastily-scrawled, black-inked numbers on it.

A phone number.

 _Victor’s_ phone number.

“Shit,” Yuuri exhaled, and the word sounded foreign to his ears. He rarely swore, but what felt so strange was how it didn’t even sound like his voice. Like he was hearing himself through a canyon or from underwater. “Holy—oh my god.”

He squeezed the paper for the thousandth time that morning, just to make sure it was real.

Victor Nikiforov had given him his phone number.

 _Victor Nikiforov_ had given _him_ his _phone number._

Yuuri blankly traced the digits on the paper with his finger, almost bemused when they didn’t vanish instantly under his touch. Never—not even in his fantasies—had he thought he’d have Victor Nikiforov’s _personal phone number_.

He hadn’t even noticed when Victor had slipped it to him, subtly sliding it into his hand like a secret. No, Yuuri had been far too distracted by the fact that _Victor Nikiforov_ had held his chin in cool fingers, grip light but magnetic. How _Victor Nikiforov_ had ghosted his thumb along Yuuri’s lower lip while drawing him close and eyeing his mouth with a deep, heady gaze that practically begged for a kiss.

 _Victor was his coach now_ , Yuuri attempted to rationalize. So, of course, it made logistical sense to give Yuuri his phone number. To communicate. About…stuff. Things like practice and training and his programs. Yeah. That Victor had chosen to go about giving said phone number in such an undeniably sensual way surely had no bearing on the necessity of it all. Every skater needed to have their coach’s phone number. Preferably at the top of their Recent Contacts list. That was just a fact. Yuuri knew it. Victor knew it.

But Yuuri thought about how it had felt to have that small, torn corner of lined paper shoved discretely into his palm—how Victor’s breath had warmed his face, and the way his silvery eyelashes had brushed his cheekbones sinfully when he blinked, long and slow. For a moment, Yuuri had forgotten that they were in his family’s hotel and not a sexy night club.

From outside the room, he heard a laugh that was undeniably Victor’s roll under his family’s light giggles. _Great_. Yuuri scowled. They were probably talking about him. Joking about how Yuuri Katsuki, who had spent the majority of his life with the world’s biggest crush on a certain Russian skating champion, was still hiding in the room like this whole situation would vanish if he dared to leave and rejoin the land of the living. _Yeah,_ he thought, _that’s it. Ha ha; very funny._

Mari’s face appeared around the edge of the doorframe. “Yuuri, snap out of this funk. Victor’s telling stories about Skate Canada last year, and they’re hilarious.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, glaring up at his sister. “Be out soon.”

She rolled her eyes. “Listen, I don’t know who pissed in your cereal this morning, but I’d’ve thought you’d be in a better mood. Aren’t you always going on about your perfect, gorgeous Victor Nik—”

“Shut up, Mari,” he grumbled. His fist clenched around the paper with Victor’s phone number on it, and he immediately smoothed it out again. “I said I’ll be out soon, alright?” he snapped.

“Whatever,” she replied with a lukewarm shrug before leaving him alone once more.

The second she was gone, Yuuri turned his attention to the paper, making sure to even out any crumples or creases. He stared at the numbers again, trying to memorize Victor’s handwriting. It wasn’t beautiful. In fact, it was barely legible, and it was extremely difficult to tell the difference between the 8s and the 9s. But it was Victor’s handwriting. _Victor Nikiforov’s_ handwriting.

To Yuuri, it was more beautiful than any calligraphy or scrollwork he’d ever seen.

He figured he’d eventually get pretty good at deciphering it, though, what with Victor being his coach and all, so he—

 _Holy shit,_ he thought, mind grinding to a halt for the hundredth time in that afternoon as he realized yet again the earth-shattering truth of the day:

Victor Nikiforov— _the_ Victor Nikiforov—

Five-time-consecutive-world-champion _Victor Nikiforov_ —

Yuuri’s life-long idol and celebrity crush—

 _Victor_ fucking _Nikiforov…_

He was here to coach Yuuri.

Because Yuuri had somehow inspired him. _Him_ —the Russian Ice Prince. _Yuuri Katsuki_ had somehow inspired _him._

“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself, voicing his screaming thoughts aloud. “Victor Nikiforov is my coach.”

And, just like that, Yuuri missed the rest of the Skate Canada stories, lost instead in that endless looping thought. Hours passed like minutes, and, when Victor poked his head into the room to check on him, the truth hit Yuuri so hard that he thought he might pass out. Instead, he leapt to his feet, scrambling back to his own room and hurling himself onto his bed.

Hands shaking like a madman, he snatched his phone from its charger and, after a couple poorly-aimed taps, managed to open the contact list. It took him several tries to enter Victor’s number properly, but he succeeded eventually. Then, he clicked back to his home screen, where a wallpaper image of Victor Nikiforov skating “Stay Close to Me” greeted him.

_Holy shit._

He jabbed at the screen until a message thread between himself and Phichit popped up, and he hastily punched the letter keys until something resembling, “You will never guess who showed up at my house today,” appeared in the window.

He threw his phone to the side after hitting “send,” flopping back on his bed and draping an arm over his eyes. “Oh my god,” he whispered. He couldn’t even bring himself to say Victor’s name aloud, so he just muttered, “He’s here. Oh my god.”

Phichit wasted no time in responding, and Yuuri groped a bit before locating his phone after he’d felt it vibrate.

 _Who?_ Phichit asked.

Yuuri wasn’t sure how to say it. He didn’t even know if he’d be able to type Victor’s name. So, he opened his gallery and pulled up his wallpaper image, sending it to Phichit in lieu of a response.

Not fifteen seconds later, he felt his phone vibrating not once, not twice, but seven times. And counting. He was about to pick it up when he heard a gentle knock at his door. Sitting bolt upright, phone clenched in a death grip, he ventured, “Yes?”

“Yuuri, it’s me,” Victor said from the hallway. There was no mistaking that accent. “Don’t forget to text me so I have your number in my phone.”

“Right, okay,” Yuuri replied breathlessly. _God,_ Victor’s voice was smooth. Like honey dripping down the blade of a skate. Like velvet gloves in the moonlight. Just dead sexy.

After a beat, Victor added, “Let’s meet at the hot spring tomorrow at seven, да _?_ I want to work on a training schedule with you.”

Yuuri nodded before he realized that Victor couldn’t see him. Hastily, he said, “Sure, alright. Yeah,” cursing his incredible eloquence.

When nothing came from the other side of the door for a moment, Yuuri turned to his phone, unlocking the screen and pulling up the messages from Phichit. They were in all-caps, with lots of emojis and intentionally misspelled words like “WUT” and “GAWD.” He was just about to read the first one when he heard, “Goodnight, Yuuri,” quietly drift through the door.

“Goodn—” he stammered. Then, after a breath, he forced himself to say it:  “Goodnight, Victor.”

When he heard feet pad softly down the hall and away from his door, he clicked back to his message feed, ignoring the texts from Phichit and starting a new thread—this one to Victor Nikiforov.

 _Yuuri Katsuki_ , he texted, hitting “send’ before he could think twice.

“Holy shit,” he muttered again. “I just texted Victor Nikiforov.”

* * *

 

Down the hall, Yuuri didn’t hear Victor quietly close the door to the room he’d been given. He didn’t see the perpetual, fake smile collapse on Victor’s face as he turned his back to the wall and slid to the floor. And, after he’d buried his face in his knees, Yuuri didn’t see Victor let himself cry.

“It’s alright, Makka,” Victor sniffled when a wet nose probed concernedly at his ear. “I always knew there was a chance he wouldn’t take it so well, but I guess…I guess I had hoped…”

Victor didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Pulling out his phone, he opened a message thread to Chris, quickly typing, _Are you up?_ When Chris almost instantly replied that he was, Victor typed, _Can you talk?_

This time, Chris didn’t text back. Instead, Victor’s screen lit up with an incoming call. He smiled a bit to himself, scratched Makka behind the ears, and took it. “Hi Chris,” he sighed.

“Well you sound heartbroken, _cher_ _í_. Want to tell me about it?”

Victor sighed again, wiping some tears from his cheeks with his thumb. What even was there to say? That he’d made a terrible mistake? That none of this was going the way he’d thought it would? In truth, he wasn’t even sure why he’d wanted to call Chris in the first place; talking about his situation wouldn’t do a thing to improve it. He didn’t even think he could bring himself to say the words at the moment. So Victor leaned his chin on his knees and said, voice small and utterly drained, “Not yet, if you don’t mind. But…could you just talk to me? Tell me about your day?”

He practically heard Chris smile warmly on the other end as he acquiesced, speaking of where he’d had breakfast and the jumps he’d worked on during practice. The new tailor shop that showed up on his favorite street. The way the sunset had looked over the river. Victor listened, mostly. The words themselves slipped in and out, but he heard Chris’ voice, familiar and deep, and he felt himself relax. He knew that Chris understood that he wasn’t going to remember any of these stories later. But, like always, Chris never asked too many questions—a trait for which Victor never ceased to be grateful.

Once Chris had run out of things to say and Victor had cried all his tears, they both sat in silence for a long moment, before Chris said, “Victor? Are you okay? Do I need to come to Japan?”

“No,” Victor told him, feeling himself warm with the care in Chris’ voice. He knew that all he needed to do was say the word, and Chris would be on the next flight out, no questions asked. That kind of unconditional love was something that never failed to fill Victor’s heart to bursting. “No, I’m fine.” He heaved another sigh, running a hand over his face. “Actually, I’m not fine. But I’m not in trouble. I just…” He left the rest of the sentence in the air, unsure of what he was even planning on saying anyway.

“I’m assuming he didn’t run into your open arms and shower you with kisses,” Chris intuited gently from Victor’s unhelpful silence.

Victor would have scoffed, if he’d had the energy. “No he didn’t.”

“Did he reject you?” Chris asked.

Victor thought about that for a second. Everything Yuuri had done since he’d seen him in the onsen should have screamed of rejection. But, strangely, Victor couldn’t shake the feeling—maybe it was his own hopefulness, maybe naivete—that, if Yuuri had wanted to reject him, he would have known it in no uncertain terms. And, somehow, Yuuri’s actions didn’t read like an outright rejection. “No,” he said to Chris. “But…he acts like it never even happened. Like Sochi never happened.”

“Ouch, Vic.”

“That banquet…it was the best night of my life, Chris.”

Chris gave a low whistle at that. “I’m offended, _mon ami._ What was it before Sochi?”

Victor smiled privately as he said, “Oslo,” and Chris said, “Mmmm. I’m partial to Venice, myself.” To which Victor replied, “You would be.”

“Oh? And what exactly are you insinuating, darling?” Chris teased.

“Nothing at all. Venice was good. I just liked Oslo better.”

Chris sighed, long and flirtatious. “And this, _cher_ _í_ , is why we don’t do things like Venice or Oslo anymore.”

“Mmmmmm.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while longer, and then Victor, overcome with the sudden wave of exhaustion that comes after crying, said, “He won’t even look me in the eye, Chris. It’s like…it’s like Sochi was just a dream or something. Like it wasn’t real.” He raked a hand through his hair, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes to fight off more tears. Why did saying the truth aloud have to hurt so much?

On the other end of the line, Chris sighed. “I’m so sorry, Victor,” he said, and Victor could hear in his voice that he really was sincere. Unfortunately, there was nothing either of them could do.

They lapsed into quiet again, and Victor listened to the sounds of Chris moving around his apartment, dug his fingers deep into Makkachin’s fur, curled his toes as tightly as he could inside his socks. “Victor?” Chris tried after a while.

“Yes? I’m here.”

Chris hesitated. “This may sound…callous of me, but…sometimes, fairytales really are just make-believe.”

“I know, but this…” Victor blinked hard, but a tear still slipped out the corner of his eye. _Damn_. “This is real, Chris. I know it is. I just wish I knew why he’s acting like we’ve never met.” He paused, willing his lips to stop quivering. “A small part of me just wants to call Yakov and book the next flight back to Russia,” he admitted, voice tiny and so vulnerable. And _god_ that admission hurt.

If they had been having this conversation face-to-face, this is the part where Chris would have reached a consolatory arm around his shoulders, holding him close and speaking gently into his ear. The same sentiment came across, even over the phone, and Victor loved Chris dearly for it. “If you really are as sure as you sound, at least stay the week. Give it seven days. If you still want to fly back to Russia after that, then I won’t stop you. I don’t know Yuuri very well, but I agree with you in that he probably has a reason for acting so strangely. Stick around. See if you can find out what it is. Be his coach. If I’m wrong, you’re free to gloat later. But…I really don’t think I’m wrong.” When Victor didn’t reply, Chris added, “Victor?”

“Yes?”

“Do me a favor. Watch his video again tonight. The _Stammi Viccino_ one. Remind yourself why you decided to coach this kid.”

Victor let out a long breath, saying, “Yeah, okay. I’ll do that.”

“Good?”

“…Good.”

“Alright. I’m always here if you need to talk again, okay?” Chris said, all care and kindness.

“Thank you, Chris,” Victor replied. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Victor.”

Wordlessly, he hung up, letting his hand drop to his side. He thought for a moment about what Chris had said, and he raised his phone again to pull up Yuuri’s video of his free skate. He had seen it so many times, but the artistry of it never once had failed to amaze him. Chris had probably had a solid point.

But, in the notification bar, he saw a message that made his finger hesitate over the video’s link. An unknown number with an unknown area code. He tapped it, and read, _Yuuri Katsuki_.

With a shadow of a smile, he typed back, _Thank you. See you tomorrow at seven. -VN._ As he toggled back to the video, he let the smile grow just a fraction, and, as the music started, he found himself thinking about the text. He’d wanted to get Yuuri’s number in Sochi. Now, several months, a few gold medals, a video, and a plane ride later, he had finally gotten it saved to his contacts. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He wondered if he’d always have to work this hard where Yuuri was concerned. But, as he watched the tiny figure dance across his screen, he thought of the man himself, asleep a few doors down. So close. And still, miles stood between them. As the Yuuri on his phone stepped into a spin, he settled back against the wall, thinking that, no matter how much effort it took, no matter how much _time_ it took…if he could someday be close to Yuuri Katsuki, it would all be worth it.

At the end of the video, a new text popped into his notification bar:   _See you._ From Yuuri.

Not much, but a start.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr. Don't actually post, but I take requests and prompts! If there's something in this fandom you'd like to see, hit me up! I'm Aria-Faye.


End file.
